


"And I Would Never Say 'Pickle'!"

by SanSanFanFan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Swap, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Maybe they feel what the other one feels, Maybe they get a little closer, Maybe they start changing, What if they couldn't switch back?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 12:16:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19150861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanSanFanFan/pseuds/SanSanFanFan
Summary: What if they hadn't been able to switch back again?





	"And I Would Never Say 'Pickle'!"

“1…2…3… oh, _come on!_ ”

“Oh dear.”

This is what any passing stranger would have seen; two men holding hands on a bench in the middle of a park just around the corner from the Ritz. Perhaps nothing to comment on these days, and that was good. The difference in their attire might have caused a few nods and ‘hmmms’ – but opposites attract and all that.

Still, one of the two increasingly worried-looking men is in black jeans so tight they might squeak in protest when he walks. He has a shock of near red hair crafted upwards in a way that had either taken him hours and hours, and gallons of product, or, annoyingly, no time at all. The one in black is also wearing sunglasses, which is also shouts out an obsession with style, especially when its rapidly growing overcast on this London afternoon. The glasses and the whip-thin black tie/scarf thing about his neck also screams fashionista. All in all, it’s the loudest completely black outfit that some have ever seen.

The other one though is in a soft suit of whites and creams that was last fashionable at some point in the 1800s. There might have been a hint of tartan in the mix; a touch of picnic blanket and Pimms at the cricket. Around the middle, there’s certainly a suggestion of a few good picnics, and the man’s free hand is currently either straightening his, also cream, waistcoat over that soft belly, or calming himself with some subtle touches.

“I can’t bloody believe it!”

“We should try again?”

“Okay, but you have to _really_ concentrate this time!” Hisses the rounder man to the lean one.

“I have been, I promise. Oh dear, oh dear.” Mumbles the sharp-faced man, his free hand clenching the bench, the wood creaking and splintering.

“1… 2… 3…” Counts the one in white, and both of them stare at their joined hands, willing something to happen.  Nothing apparently does. Although it does start to rain a little and the rounder fair-haired one shivers in disgust.

“What does it mean, Crowley?” Asks the man in black, his bottom lip quivering just a little. The strangers have wandered away at this point, suddenly taken by a desire to feed the ducks in Regent’s Park or to go see the new Hamlet on Shaftesbury Avenue. A few have been hit by the urge to make nuisance calls for the rest of the afternoon, but only a _few_.

“I don’t know angel.” Replies Crowley, through Aziraphale’s mouth. “It should have worked. A quick switch and then back again. We mixed up our essences just enough to fool them above and them below. It should be simple to just…” He shakes and jiggles their joined hands as though he can kick start the damn change back.

At first, it had been actually quite pleasant to sit on the bench and join hands with Aziraphale again, just as they had done in secret last night. But the wondrous excitement on Aziraphale’s face as they’d bled into each other and shifted that first time had now become nervous anguish in his eyes and a tightness in his mouth. In his mouth. This was literally worst mirror he’d ever encountered, all it showed him was his pointy face and Aziraphale’s full-on distress.

“Damn it all to he- oh bugger it all!”

‘Crowley’s’ hand released from his and patted him gently on the shoulder. “There, there, dear. We’ll work it out. It wasn’t so bad being you for a bit you know, I could probably handle it for a little while longer.” Aziraphale smiles awkwardly in Crowley’s body, and somewhere in the park a baby starling, or something similar, sings its first song, and it’s just a bunch of bum notes.

“Yeah, I mean, I didn’t hate it either. Getting one over Gabriel and all…” ‘Aziraphale’ smiles and the angel in Crowley’s body finds it strange to see a dark, twisted, grin on his own soft lips. “But I didn’t think it’d be a permanent deal. I’ve put a lot of miles on the clock of that body, I’m kind of attached to it.”

‘Crowley’ straightens the lank black scarf thing that hangs down from the body’s neck. “And I promise that I will take the most excellent care of it until we can work this thing out, my dear.”

Crowley is about to smile at his friend, when suddenly the scarf curls up on its self and becomes a black bowtie.

“No. No! Absolutely not!” He barks at the angel in disguise. “You leave that alone!”

The bowtie relaxes into a thin line again.

“You do that again, angel, and I swear that I will turn your beloved jacket into a PVC trenchcoat!”

‘Crowley’ gasps, “You wouldn’t!”

The white-haired man leans toward his companion on the bench and summons all the menace he can into Aziraphale’s wide innocent eyes. “Try me.” He squeaks.

‘Crowley’ stifles a laugh and ‘Azriphale’ throws up his hands in exasperation.

“Oh no! Oh no! That was very scary!” ‘Crowley’ places his hand over the demon’s heart. “I promise.”

Crowley is too busy grumbling to notice his friend doesn’t take his hand away immediately, that instead he seems to be listening to the rhythm of the beating under there with a curious look on his face. His awed expression is also hidden a little by the sunglasses, which gets the angel in disguise thinking. There is much to ponder on the revelations of being in Crowley’s body. Much to explore. But not here and not now.

“So, what do we do now?” Asks the flame-haired man. “Heaven and Hell are scared of us, for now. But if they realise the switch that we pulled off…?”

Crowley as Aziraphale curses in a way the angel never would normally, the words turning his lips a deeper shade of pink, as though sunburned. “They can’t find out. We have to keep playing the game until we can fix this!”

“Keep… playing. You mean you have to keep pretending to be me?!”

“Hell always has eyes about, and I’m sure heaven watches from on high as well. We have to be each other for a while longer, as best we can.”

“Oh dear.” Whispers 'Crowley’.

“You could at least swear, it would be more bloody authentic!”

‘Crowley’ steels himself. He had sworn before of course. His discorporation back in the book shop had shocked the f-word out of him, for example. And there was that time in the fifth century when he’d miracled a girl’s broken leg without thinking, and nearly started a schismatic church. But on the whole curse words came out of his mouth like ill-formed lumpen things.

“Ah, yes, of course, Crowley. Shoot! Um, wanker. Balls?”

‘Aziraphale’ curled over and put his head in his hands before speaking through gritted angelic teeth, “You can’t call me Crowley either, Crowley.”

“Yes, of course! You are quite right, as usual. I mean, bloody hell, that’s effing correct, you effer!” Nodded ‘Crowley’, and then waited expectantly with a smile for a compliment, like a puppy after doing a trick for the first time. Like not weeing on the rug.

“Ungghhh” Groaned Crowley.

“Well… well, you could do better too! Look at your posture! We talked all about this before the switch. How we both do things differently and how to copy them!”

Crowley straightens up in Aziraphale’s body, even righting his bowtie with a subtle click of his fingers. “Yes, we did… my _dear_.”

The words are in his voice and coming from his body, but its Crowley saying them. Aziraphale is surprised by the immediate and strong reaction of Crowley’s body. His heart beats in his ears, his eyes widen, his pupils turn from lines to obsidian orbs. Is that, is that why he wears the sunglasses? Yes, he has his serpent-like eyes, and he probably doesn’t want to be responsible for a human’s heart attack (1), but there have been many times when the two of them have been alone together, and he’s still kept them on!

 “Much better, you… wanker.” Said Aziraphale, grasping for a word as the whole world still seemed to be tipping and pivoting around him.

“My, my, there’s no need for that kind of language!” Smirks back ‘Aziraphale’, before his face suddenly falls. Its all ‘Crowley’ can do to stop his body from immediately petting the angel’s… the demon’s… pale hair and trying to make him feel better. Is this what’s its always like for Crowley when something bothers his angelic friend, wonders Aziraphale?

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to go and work in the bookshop, don’t I?” Crowley says the words as though he’s been sentenced to an infinitude in the very worst pits of hell.

“Oh, I thought that you liked the book shop?” Aziraphale tries not to sound too huffy, especially as ‘huff’ doesn’t really go with Crowley’s usual look of sleek murderous intent.

“It’s not that, angel… my dear. I like the book shop well and good. But I like just hanging out there when you’re the one busying yourself with restocking the shelves or cataloguing your Dewey decimals-”

“That’s libraries.” Whispers ‘Crowley’

“Or doing whatever it is you do with those things that wander into the place like lost sheep.”

“Customers?”

“Yes! Customers! You can’t expect me to deal with ‘customers’” he whines. “I’ll have combusted several humans by the end of the day, I swear it!”

“And I can’t very well be sauntering all slinky-like about all day tempting humans into parking illegally or not paying their TV license.” ‘Crowley’ nodded.

‘Aziraphale’ narrowed his big blue eyes at him, “Oh, is that really what you think I do?”

“Well, I suppose since we are both persona non-grata in both heaven and hell at the moment, perhaps you don’t even have that to do.”

“I have a LOT of tempting still in me, thank you very much! And it’s not all parking and TV licenses!” Crowley fumes and sparks of celestial fire singe the park bench. The connection between the body and the power is actually very complicated, Aziraphale realises, wondering if in fact he was the one who’d sent the passersby to make nuisance calls all along. The sooner they untangled themselves, the better!

“Very well, you do as you will, but I am going to do some research and see if we can’t find a way out of this pickle.”

‘Aziraphale’ sneers and stands quickly, pulling his waistcoat down to smarten it up as he does, before snapping at the sitting demon/angel, “And I would never say _‘pickle’!_ Good day to you, sir!!

***

Sometime later, after the thunderstorm has passed (was that him or Crowley, he wasn’t sure. Certainly, both of them were in a bad enough mood for it), Aziraphale makes use of a taxi to get him to the British Library. The poor man at the wheel keeps asking if he wouldn’t prefer somewhere a little more to his speed, suggesting some hole in the wall speakeasy or some such where his niece dances. It sounds quite delightful, but the comment about speed, and Crowley’s face looking back at him in the review mirror of the car, only remind him of his refusal to take a lift from his friend just a little while ago. _You go too fast for me, Crowley._

He shrugs off the sadness as he walks - no, he saunters, Crowley’s strut suggesting that hips were something that he’d heard about once and decided that they weren’t for him – towards the baggage check at the front doors to the library. He’s checked out by a security officer, who also checks him out.

Was this usual for Crowley? It certainly wasn’t usual for him! But on his way to the antiquarian section, he notices more than a few pairs of eyes trailing after him. Crowley’s never mentioned using that kind of temptation in his machinations with the humans. But perhaps that’s how he’s been so successful?

It becomes a bother when the older gentleman showing him to the archives won’t stop leering, so he tempts him with the thought of a scone with cream in the library café instead. It’s such a small temptation, but the surprise at being able to do it makes a giggle bubble up inside him, and he can’t help but let it out, even if fifty or so ‘shushes’ then follow immediately.

A few hours spent at the books, his sunglasses perched on his head when it’s safe so that he can squint more easily at a few difficult to read manuscripts, and he’s no closer to an answer. He does, however, have a craving for something that will burn the back of his throat and put a kick in his step. Crowley’s bound to have plenty of that back at his flat…

***

“So, you don’t have wrapping paper?”

“No.”

“Birthday cards?”

“No.”

“This is why independent bookshops are going out of business, you know!” Harrumphs the ‘customer’.

Inside Aziraphale’s body, Crowley is mentally going full serpent and sinking his fangs into this arsehole’s fat neck. But on the outside, he’s still the lovely, marshmallowy soft, book shop owner the man first met when he came crashing in through Aziraphale’s door and demanded “something for a difficult woman who likes cats”. He’d even bitten his tongue when his first answer had been “a divorce”. Damn it all to hell, but he was trying to be the angel. He had even manifested the illusion of a professional storyteller to entertain some young humans who’d been brought by parents who were expecting one to babysit for them while they shopped. That the storyteller was currently reading them _The Fall of the House of Usher_ was neither here nor there.

The man had harrumphed again and muttered something about bloody _Waterstones_ , so Crowley gifted him a porn mag he’d earlier lying in a gutter just around the corner, making it appear within one of the bags and bags of things that the man had already bought himself in Oxford Street. Maybe his wife would be able to get that divorce after all, Crowley smirked, and to anyone watching at that moment the kind Mr Fell’s face would have suddenly seemed have fallen into some somewhat gothic lighting.

Eventually, the time came for Crowley/Aziraphale to shut up shop.

“I cannot, I will _not_ do this for eternity,” he muttered as he went to flip the sign on the door. But then his reflection caught his eyes. His face was still earnest and sweet, no matter how much he was grumbling on the inside.

“Oh, damn me.” He muttered, “I can’t let _him_ down.”

He summoned a mug of cocoa and went to sit at the angel’s desk. There was a ledger with a very quaint quill on top, and the man’s words about failing bookshops rang in his ears as he opened it. Crowley was very good with numbers by nature. Demons are always keeping score, and if he just treated books sold as souls tempted into sin, then it was simple enough to see how his friend was making out. Or not.

“Oh, angel.” He muttered as the numbers danced and lined up in front of his eyes. “Maybe you _should_ start selling wrapping paper.”

***

Crowley was very surprised to be jogged awake by Crowley.

It took him a moment to realise that he was still in Aziraphale’s body, and the Crowley in front of him was his angel. And that his angel was very drunk.

“Youuuu were ssssleeeping!”

“I do that sometimes. Or at least I used to when I had that body. I think we’re both a little bit jumbled together now…”

‘Crowley’ laughed “Yes! ‘Jumbled together’. What a pickle we’re in!”

Crowley rubbed Aziraphale’s eyes and squinted at the man in front of him. He was wearing a very familiar black toga. And long black socks, pulled all the way up. “Going somewhere special, angel?”

“Just trying on some of your old clothes. Always rather liked thissss one.”

“You’re hissing.”

“I rather liked being a sssnake too. Did that for a bit. Drank for a bit. Was sssnake again for a bit. Didn’t realise your scales were sssoft-”

Crowley felt the angel’s face burning up. “It's polite to ask a gentleman before you touch his scales!”

“ _My_ scales.”

“That body’s only a rental, Aziraphale! Did you manage to work out a fix?”

“Nah, I was too bloody busy tempting people into eating sconesss.”

“Scones! What about my _blooming_ reputation!”

‘Crowley’ slunk closer. “We could do something about that too!”

‘Aziraphale’ stood up in shock, “Hang on there a minute! I’m no cheap incubus. I’ve never spoken like that to you before-”

“Shame.” Murmured the ‘Crowley’ and gave him a look that sent odd things aflutter in ‘Aziraphale’s chest, “Maybe if you did, you wouldn’t need to wear these glasses around me.”

“I say!” exclaimed ‘Aziraphale’, “Wait, am I becoming more like you, and you’re becoming more like me? We have to change back right now!”

‘Crowley’ pouted, “But when I’m you – and drunk – I can say all the things I can’t say-”

‘Aziraphale’s’ eyes widened, “And when I’m you I can feel all the things you feel. I wanted to know. I think you wanted to know too!”

“Your heart beats faster. It’s a little miracle every time you… I… say ‘my dear’”

“Oh, my dearest, dearest, angel! Give me your hand right now!”

‘Crowley’ stumbles closer, and in the middle of the bookshop, they hold hands. Black flows into white and vice versa, and both of them stagger back a little. Crowley more than Aziraphale as he gets the full two barrels of scotch the angel has drunk in one go on his behalf.

“Wow.” The demon exclaims, removing his sunglasses and trying to focus his eyes. “Did you get into ALL my bloody drink?”

“Most of it,” mutters Aziraphale, reddening as he returns to his demure, and sober, self.

“You didn’t want to change back that first time. Not really.”

“Neither did you.”

Crowley swallows deeply and takes hold of all the booze born courage that Aziraphale has pumped him full of, “We could change again, you know. If it helps you to know how I feel about you.”

“I thought you were used to that body.”

“I am. But maybe… maybe I like yours too.”

“Oh, my dear, it’s yours,” Aziraphale says, moving hesitantly closer. “All of it, but especially my heart.”

“Angel,” Crowley whispers as the space between them shrinks with his own steps forward.

“Yes, dear?”

“Later, we are going to have a very quick _conversation_ about wrapping paper and scones.”

“When?”

They are millimetres from each other now, breathing the same air and staring at lips that until recently they were moving. Lips that seem awfully tempting now they are in the control of the right driver again.

“Much later.”

 

 

(1) He does.


End file.
